There are days during marathon training when despite all the motivational posters, mantras and self talk, you simply balk. By week 14 everything rebels. Your sore, your tired, your body is full of aches, pains and microtears to muscles, and you can't believe you are really doing it again - a relentless groundhog day mentality sets in. Even seeing Q-Less picking me up for a speed work out, which would normally brighten my day made me think ' huh - we doing this again?'
Twice a week I take 'recovery' runs around the High School. Recovery is really a misleading term as mostly I feel like a train wreck for the first few miles, but eventually they start to feel OK. Recovery runs also coincide with dropping the kids off at school which allows me just enough time to get a 7 mile loop in before getting ready for work at the running store. So there is none of my habitual slouching in pajamas on recovery days. I have to be dressed, ready for combat and oatmeal eaten by 7 am. That in itself wouldn't be too hard, but throw in waking up kids, getting lunches packed, breakfast inhaled and swim/track bags remembered makes it a tad more challenging. Since her 16th birthday the newly self styled 'preppy betch' now has to drive her little brother and myself to school in her shiny black bug. My mellow relaxed start to the day has been replaced by the snarling arrogance of preppy betch behind the wheel. Like the road hog Toad in Wind in the Willows she takes us on a white knuckle ride most mornings; every advice or direction I give, is rebuffed by sassy 16 year old responses, that result me in either telling her to pull over and relinquish the wheel or her beligerent silence.
Just arriving in the high school parking lot alive now feels like an achievement. Dredging up the energy to get the run in has been getting progressively harder to closer I come to taper, as I am getting worn down by the hard runs and weeks of training. On Monday I managed to negotiate a few cell phone wielding Mom's in their SUV's, probably equally stressed, who nearly wiped me out running on the road parallel to the schools. Then relaxing into my recovery pace I really started to drag. After two miles of plodding along, in the distance I saw a vision in blue approaching and was delighted to notice it was the lovely local eye doctor on her Broad Street training loop around the park. I quickly ditched my normal route and shamelessly attached myself to her, almost throwing myself at her as if she were a celebrity. Kind soul that she is, she ditched the i-pod and instead listened to my breathless babbling about how happy I was to see her as "I really needed company"to keep myself from heading straight home to the parking lot.
Probably startled by my advances, she kindly let me join her and the miles passed catching up and enjoying her excellent company. It reminded me of the huge village of runners there is out there who whilst they theoretically race against you, in reality, they will do anything to help out a fellow runner.
I finished the run actually feeling 'recovered', as in refreshed, better than I started and importantly mentally refreshed from getting to spend time with a wonderful person who I had had trouble finding the time to catch up with due to busy work schedules/kids and life in general. Those moments passing the time on my run reminded me just how important that community of runners is and how much every person I have run with has influenced or made an impression on me.
Of course, having written my own training plan, I also took it as a fairly good sign that tapering was becoming a necessity. Some argue a two week taper, others a three - I had dabbled between the two and assumed a small reduction three weeks out. Needless to say I went home and slashed the following week's mileage by 30% and declared the start of taper. Calling Q-Less to ask her if she minded me cutting her next week's hard runs was something of a no brainer. She wasn't talking too clearly for some reason, but her mumbling sounded like she was agreeing - turns out she had actually managed to hit herself in the mouth with her own racket at tennis and her lip was swollen and black and blue - boy she was tired too. Let the taper begin!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Power of Two
Week 12 of training for Boston brought another high intensity week. 56 miles is not really that many compared to collegiate runners, or serious marathoners who with their 'two a days' can get to 120 plus miles in a week. But for the Real Housewives the fact that more than half of those miles were run at paces ranging from race pace to 5k pace meant it would be another leg melting week.
For most of our speed work or tempos I have had the less than delightful site of Q-Less' bubble butt in front of me - not that it isn't cute, Q-Less is very proud of that butt, so we have all had to admire it at times. However, it is always harder to motivate yourself if you feel you are trailing in the weeds, even if the clock tells you you are a head of pace, and some weeks I have wondered whether solo speed work might be more satisfying - just me and the clock, afterall, we have had a pretty solid relationship and my garmin rarely talks back. This week's intervals told a different story. For our 8 mile speed work out we had 5 one mile repeats. The first three went pretty smoothly - 6.50 pace, hard at times, but not gut wrenching, and for once Q-Less and I were running fairly closely together. By the third repeat Q-Less was starting to flag considerably. Not content with the 7 mile recovery run the day before she had also indulged her passion for tennis and taken on a game after the run, singles no less, and boy was she hurting. After some pathetic arm waving and gutterall noises she was motioning me to go ahead. I had a flash backs to all those miles of chasing her sorry butt and was sorely tempted to enjoy the brief satisfaction of giving her the same glorious view, even if it were for just one run.
Then a brief and probably rare expression of maturity occurred. I remembered how ludicrous competition actually becomes in the race itself, all thoughts of keeping up with your girlfriends fade in light of the grueling reality of the situation. At mile 23 all you want to do is finish and see your family again - juvenile rivalries and the spark of the boxing ring fall away, redundant and insignifcant. I think that is why so many runners raise money for charities, or to feed their village in Africa and perhaps why Ryan Hall switched coaches and decided to run for God - there has to be more to this incredible effort than an improved PR.
For the next two miles I hung back with Q-Less who both times started at what seemed incredibly slowly, but by mid interval she would courageously revive her exhausted legs into action and finish the interval somehow galvanized by seeing the end in sight and was able to run a respectable, albeit very negative, split. It was surprisingly uplifting to take the focus off myself for a moment and wait for Q-Less to make her come back, and it reminded me why we were even doing speed work together; it was down to the 'power of two'. If one loses mojo surely the other can find it for you, and vice versa.
Our long run a day or two later also included pace work, another 18 mile race simulation. I don't know if the reversed circumstances altered our running psyche, but instead of running in tandem on Kelly Drive and dodging the bikers and strollers, we came up with a new approach to the long run. My conservative steady pace, and Q-Less' more impetuous speed and strong kick, combined well for the first time as we made our 10 mile race pace section an Indian Run. At each mile we took it in turn to lead; neither one got too far ahead; neither one felt she was holding back the other.
Leading was empowering and made me feel stronger as a runner, enjoying the head wind off the river and all the views of Philadelphia. The strange sights of the city whizzed by as snapshots. Two ladies head to toe in burqas, with only the small slot revealing their eyes as they flickered over us with seemingly no emotion; the child in its buggy that they pushed seemed to do the same, as his baby blanket and hat offered an equivalent tiny window into his face. An elderly african american nanny kindly made huge efforts to let us pass her double buggy on the free way overpass and called out 'Do the Lord's Work' as we ran past.
Then every other mile we switched and I got a chance to draft off Q-less, offering me that perfect buffer against the breeze and a brief pause in the run, I could check out and let her lead the way, relaxing and knowing that no matter how big the gap got she would have to slack off to let me lead the next one. This combination of pacing brought us in at a 7.39 pace ( well ahead of our race pace goal of 7.50) with both of us feeling good - Q-Less felt redemption after feeling lousy on the intervals, and for once I didn't feel I was holding any up on the pace work.
After all it had only taken ten years of running together - but for once I think Q-Less and I actually made our partnership work. Perhaps Boston will become one long Indian Run. Turning 26.2 miles into 13.1 miles would certainly be a beautiful thing for both of us.
For most of our speed work or tempos I have had the less than delightful site of Q-Less' bubble butt in front of me - not that it isn't cute, Q-Less is very proud of that butt, so we have all had to admire it at times. However, it is always harder to motivate yourself if you feel you are trailing in the weeds, even if the clock tells you you are a head of pace, and some weeks I have wondered whether solo speed work might be more satisfying - just me and the clock, afterall, we have had a pretty solid relationship and my garmin rarely talks back. This week's intervals told a different story. For our 8 mile speed work out we had 5 one mile repeats. The first three went pretty smoothly - 6.50 pace, hard at times, but not gut wrenching, and for once Q-Less and I were running fairly closely together. By the third repeat Q-Less was starting to flag considerably. Not content with the 7 mile recovery run the day before she had also indulged her passion for tennis and taken on a game after the run, singles no less, and boy was she hurting. After some pathetic arm waving and gutterall noises she was motioning me to go ahead. I had a flash backs to all those miles of chasing her sorry butt and was sorely tempted to enjoy the brief satisfaction of giving her the same glorious view, even if it were for just one run.
Then a brief and probably rare expression of maturity occurred. I remembered how ludicrous competition actually becomes in the race itself, all thoughts of keeping up with your girlfriends fade in light of the grueling reality of the situation. At mile 23 all you want to do is finish and see your family again - juvenile rivalries and the spark of the boxing ring fall away, redundant and insignifcant. I think that is why so many runners raise money for charities, or to feed their village in Africa and perhaps why Ryan Hall switched coaches and decided to run for God - there has to be more to this incredible effort than an improved PR.
For the next two miles I hung back with Q-Less who both times started at what seemed incredibly slowly, but by mid interval she would courageously revive her exhausted legs into action and finish the interval somehow galvanized by seeing the end in sight and was able to run a respectable, albeit very negative, split. It was surprisingly uplifting to take the focus off myself for a moment and wait for Q-Less to make her come back, and it reminded me why we were even doing speed work together; it was down to the 'power of two'. If one loses mojo surely the other can find it for you, and vice versa.
Our long run a day or two later also included pace work, another 18 mile race simulation. I don't know if the reversed circumstances altered our running psyche, but instead of running in tandem on Kelly Drive and dodging the bikers and strollers, we came up with a new approach to the long run. My conservative steady pace, and Q-Less' more impetuous speed and strong kick, combined well for the first time as we made our 10 mile race pace section an Indian Run. At each mile we took it in turn to lead; neither one got too far ahead; neither one felt she was holding back the other.
Leading was empowering and made me feel stronger as a runner, enjoying the head wind off the river and all the views of Philadelphia. The strange sights of the city whizzed by as snapshots. Two ladies head to toe in burqas, with only the small slot revealing their eyes as they flickered over us with seemingly no emotion; the child in its buggy that they pushed seemed to do the same, as his baby blanket and hat offered an equivalent tiny window into his face. An elderly african american nanny kindly made huge efforts to let us pass her double buggy on the free way overpass and called out 'Do the Lord's Work' as we ran past.
Then every other mile we switched and I got a chance to draft off Q-less, offering me that perfect buffer against the breeze and a brief pause in the run, I could check out and let her lead the way, relaxing and knowing that no matter how big the gap got she would have to slack off to let me lead the next one. This combination of pacing brought us in at a 7.39 pace ( well ahead of our race pace goal of 7.50) with both of us feeling good - Q-Less felt redemption after feeling lousy on the intervals, and for once I didn't feel I was holding any up on the pace work.
After all it had only taken ten years of running together - but for once I think Q-Less and I actually made our partnership work. Perhaps Boston will become one long Indian Run. Turning 26.2 miles into 13.1 miles would certainly be a beautiful thing for both of us.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Runners Anonymous
Chasing the Unicorn is beginning to feel more like chasing the dragon. Like the senseless addict I find myself deliberately destroying my body for my daily fix of running in the hopes of securing the ultimate high - running a perfect race. Those who Chase the Dragon have to keep that liquid opium constantly moving, or it turns into a single coalesced lump which is useless to the addict who wishes to breathe in its fumes. In that same way marathoners have to keep moving, six days a week, for fear they will become that same unmanageable lump should they stop.
Many people sensibly stay away from the marathon for good reason. Many run it once, for the bucket list, then never return. It is hard to run the kind of training miles you need consistently over 16 weeks. Not a single run is hard, but to do it ever day is. If you do have the time to manage the training, there is a good chance that pushing yourself through so many runs will leave you injured before you even get to the start line. The half marathon is increasingly popular for most people. You can train three hard runs a week and run a really good half marathon. Not so the marathon - the Full Monty requires 5/7 days a week of hard and easy runs. It also takes at least a month to recover, so if you wake up with a bad cold on the day, or the weather is ten degrees warmer than you had planned, you really have to wait another 6 months before you can try again.
Coming to the end of week eleven, with a couple of tough weeks of peak training behind me, and the daunting view of a couple more ahead, I find myself questioning why I am so attracted to this race. One of the reasons I like it, is it the only race you can not run by 'feel'. There is a huge mental challenge to this race, and as I am somewhat lacking in physical talent, it is a race that the short and stubby of leg, but strong of mind and spirit can tackle. I truly think the body has a built in pace maker that tells you it can sustain certain paces for a certain amount of time - I can run relatively even splits without a watch for 5k, 10k and even a half marathon. For a full marathon that is beyond me and most people. There is a science to figuring out your goal pace and then how to aportion that throughout the race. For the first 10 miles you feel as though you are holding back by around 20%, then you feel like you are at the right pace for another 10, then the last 6 are usually a struggle if you have mapped out the miles correctly. That patience and that learning to restrain during the early adrenaline fueled miles of a race while hundreds are passing you is a demanding mental challenge or the competively driven runner. Go out too hard on the first downhill ten miles of Boston and you will never make the hills that start at mile 16. Go out too slow and fail to cash in on the easy downhill, and you will not make up time, even if you speed up a tad for the second half. Whilst this race really begins at mile 20, that is only true if you have run those 20 miles at the race pace. You can't fix a mistake or play catch up in this race. The most time can drop up in the last 6 miles is one or two minutes, no matter how much fuel you still have in the tank.
If you do run perfect splits in the marathon lots of things can still go devastatingly wrong. I overlaced my shoes in my last attempt. My perfect splits, the perfect weather and the flat course had me in line for a new 3.25 PR, sadly I had to stop twice and tweak the stupid lacing because in my overly zealous preparations I had tied the laces snugger than usual and by mle 12 acute pain was setting in - that cost me two whole minutes when I checked my garmin. If it had been a half marathon I would have blasted through, but that was not even conceivable when there were 13 more miles to go.
In England there is a crude expression for going number twos which is called 'doing a Paula' because our national heroine of distance running, Paula Radcliffe, famously had to take a serious dump mid race and the camera crews, uncertain of what she was up to panned down as she unceromoniously crouched in the middle of a London pavement and off loaded what had been slowing her down, before jumping up and finishing her race. Training your bowels, bladder and stomach, also becomes part of the challenge.
For the 16 weeks of training your muscles are complaining, your tendons are rubbing, inflammation, cramping, tightening of old sinews, aches and pains are a constant factor; balanced with the fact that your breathing, heart rate and ability to withstand the rigors of those miles keeps on improving, creating a bizarre ying and yang of increased fitness and creeping debilitation. The hopes that taper will somehow maintain the hard earned cardiac fitness whilst repairing the muscle damage is clung to anxiously.
Chaffing, blisters, shoelaces, lack of correct hydration and nutrition, wind, snow, heat and other runners are all waiting to scupper you in the quest to chase the unicorn. Maybe no one ever runs the perfect marathon; I am on number five and wondering how many more I have in me, but still find myself curiously attracted to it. A glimps of the mane, or a swish of his tail on Patriot's day may be enough to keep me chasing again....
Many people sensibly stay away from the marathon for good reason. Many run it once, for the bucket list, then never return. It is hard to run the kind of training miles you need consistently over 16 weeks. Not a single run is hard, but to do it ever day is. If you do have the time to manage the training, there is a good chance that pushing yourself through so many runs will leave you injured before you even get to the start line. The half marathon is increasingly popular for most people. You can train three hard runs a week and run a really good half marathon. Not so the marathon - the Full Monty requires 5/7 days a week of hard and easy runs. It also takes at least a month to recover, so if you wake up with a bad cold on the day, or the weather is ten degrees warmer than you had planned, you really have to wait another 6 months before you can try again.
Coming to the end of week eleven, with a couple of tough weeks of peak training behind me, and the daunting view of a couple more ahead, I find myself questioning why I am so attracted to this race. One of the reasons I like it, is it the only race you can not run by 'feel'. There is a huge mental challenge to this race, and as I am somewhat lacking in physical talent, it is a race that the short and stubby of leg, but strong of mind and spirit can tackle. I truly think the body has a built in pace maker that tells you it can sustain certain paces for a certain amount of time - I can run relatively even splits without a watch for 5k, 10k and even a half marathon. For a full marathon that is beyond me and most people. There is a science to figuring out your goal pace and then how to aportion that throughout the race. For the first 10 miles you feel as though you are holding back by around 20%, then you feel like you are at the right pace for another 10, then the last 6 are usually a struggle if you have mapped out the miles correctly. That patience and that learning to restrain during the early adrenaline fueled miles of a race while hundreds are passing you is a demanding mental challenge or the competively driven runner. Go out too hard on the first downhill ten miles of Boston and you will never make the hills that start at mile 16. Go out too slow and fail to cash in on the easy downhill, and you will not make up time, even if you speed up a tad for the second half. Whilst this race really begins at mile 20, that is only true if you have run those 20 miles at the race pace. You can't fix a mistake or play catch up in this race. The most time can drop up in the last 6 miles is one or two minutes, no matter how much fuel you still have in the tank.
If you do run perfect splits in the marathon lots of things can still go devastatingly wrong. I overlaced my shoes in my last attempt. My perfect splits, the perfect weather and the flat course had me in line for a new 3.25 PR, sadly I had to stop twice and tweak the stupid lacing because in my overly zealous preparations I had tied the laces snugger than usual and by mle 12 acute pain was setting in - that cost me two whole minutes when I checked my garmin. If it had been a half marathon I would have blasted through, but that was not even conceivable when there were 13 more miles to go.
In England there is a crude expression for going number twos which is called 'doing a Paula' because our national heroine of distance running, Paula Radcliffe, famously had to take a serious dump mid race and the camera crews, uncertain of what she was up to panned down as she unceromoniously crouched in the middle of a London pavement and off loaded what had been slowing her down, before jumping up and finishing her race. Training your bowels, bladder and stomach, also becomes part of the challenge.
For the 16 weeks of training your muscles are complaining, your tendons are rubbing, inflammation, cramping, tightening of old sinews, aches and pains are a constant factor; balanced with the fact that your breathing, heart rate and ability to withstand the rigors of those miles keeps on improving, creating a bizarre ying and yang of increased fitness and creeping debilitation. The hopes that taper will somehow maintain the hard earned cardiac fitness whilst repairing the muscle damage is clung to anxiously.
Chaffing, blisters, shoelaces, lack of correct hydration and nutrition, wind, snow, heat and other runners are all waiting to scupper you in the quest to chase the unicorn. Maybe no one ever runs the perfect marathon; I am on number five and wondering how many more I have in me, but still find myself curiously attracted to it. A glimps of the mane, or a swish of his tail on Patriot's day may be enough to keep me chasing again....
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Wind in Our Hair......
The tenth week of Boston training potentially puts many marathon wannabes on the 'at risk list' for either injury or sickness and burn out. You are two weeks into the peak section of training, still have three more very hard weeks to come, and you suddenly start wondering why the heck you are even doing it. My previous week had seen me attempt my first 'easy' twenty, just two days after the Frosty 5 mile race. Needless to say, by mile 15 my dodgy right hamstring was complaining vociferously, making amputation seem like a positive mood. As the pain travelled down the sciatic nerve, down the whole leg and into my foot, it was becoming numb yet sore simultaneously. It didn't matter if I ran fast or slow, it still really hurt. The epidural effect of running, brought on by a rush of endorphins somehow failed to occurr. The miserable nature of this experience was further amplified by the fact that Q-Less kept telling me how great she felt and how she really wanted to feel as amazing as this at the end of Boston this year with a silly smile on her face. The only thing that kept me from biting her head off was the lip biting concentration it took to limp after her. Despite my urging her to go on ahead she loyally stayed 100 meters ahead, charitably turning around on occasion to see if the dim vision of my crippled self was still in view.
The morning after this runnus horribilis I naturally woke with a streaming cold; a second and more vicious reminder of the need to allow at least one day of recovery for every mile you race. Speed work a day or two later was more akin to running underwater, nostrils, mouth and eyes seemed to be spewing forth all kinds of bubbling liquid, and breathing was like having someone stand firmly on your chest with jack boots on. Ah the joys of Boston training I thought to myself.....
As the day of our first 18 mile race simulation arrived I was experiencing an unusual cocktail of anxiety blended with a rather large jig of ennui. The first 6 miles of 'easy' warm up on the trail didn't feel that easy - so we stopped to down some gu before tackling the ten miles of race pace on Kelly Drive, and set up the i-pods, and I mentally prepared for some gruelling miles.
Something rare and rather lovely happened. One mile into the pace work, the wind was gusting gently off the Schuykill River, the water was sparkling in the sunlight, and everything was right in the world. Q-less, bless her, had done some crazy plyometrics on a deflated bosson the day before, at what she had assumed would be her usual rinky dink tennis clinic and she was feeling really sore for once. With the playing field nicely levelled Q-less and I locked step down Kelly Drive in perfect unison, and suddenly I remembered why I had signed up for Boston - running felt effortless and pleasurable again. The weather was ridiculously warm for the first of March, so I was running virtually naked for that time of year, thin capris and a vest, not even gloves. Effortlessly gliding into the city - the wind in our hair, the sun glinting off our shades, we passed the steady stream of bikers and joggers enjoying all that the great city of Philadelphia had to offer.
For a few moments I was able to let go of the day job, that of swim, or XC Mom. The mantra of make pasta, drive, cheer, drive some more, wash towels, then get up at 5 am and do it all again was no longer in my head and the swim taxi was parked many miles away. For a few moments that week I could do and be something else. Like the kid who gets to play in the dress up box at nursery school; in my crazy make believe world I could be Paula Radcliffe for a short while. Q-less, or should I say, Kara, next to me despite being younger, gorgeous and a phenomenal athlete, was finally running my pace and all was right in my world. As we headed down the Drive and past the Falls Bridge, I glanced up at a rather elegant graveyard. At that precise moment it triggered a poignant memento mori. All those niggling naye sayers who you bump into at parties and take great pleasure in telling you running will either give you a heart attack, or blow out your knees, would eventually end up along side Q-less and I in that very ground. Did one want to die knowing you had experienced life and all that running had to give, or would you trade that for a few stodgy hours in front of the TV, remote control in hand, warning others of the dangers of all fun activities. I knew then which choice I would make.
The morning after this runnus horribilis I naturally woke with a streaming cold; a second and more vicious reminder of the need to allow at least one day of recovery for every mile you race. Speed work a day or two later was more akin to running underwater, nostrils, mouth and eyes seemed to be spewing forth all kinds of bubbling liquid, and breathing was like having someone stand firmly on your chest with jack boots on. Ah the joys of Boston training I thought to myself.....
As the day of our first 18 mile race simulation arrived I was experiencing an unusual cocktail of anxiety blended with a rather large jig of ennui. The first 6 miles of 'easy' warm up on the trail didn't feel that easy - so we stopped to down some gu before tackling the ten miles of race pace on Kelly Drive, and set up the i-pods, and I mentally prepared for some gruelling miles.
Something rare and rather lovely happened. One mile into the pace work, the wind was gusting gently off the Schuykill River, the water was sparkling in the sunlight, and everything was right in the world. Q-less, bless her, had done some crazy plyometrics on a deflated bosson the day before, at what she had assumed would be her usual rinky dink tennis clinic and she was feeling really sore for once. With the playing field nicely levelled Q-less and I locked step down Kelly Drive in perfect unison, and suddenly I remembered why I had signed up for Boston - running felt effortless and pleasurable again. The weather was ridiculously warm for the first of March, so I was running virtually naked for that time of year, thin capris and a vest, not even gloves. Effortlessly gliding into the city - the wind in our hair, the sun glinting off our shades, we passed the steady stream of bikers and joggers enjoying all that the great city of Philadelphia had to offer.
For a few moments I was able to let go of the day job, that of swim, or XC Mom. The mantra of make pasta, drive, cheer, drive some more, wash towels, then get up at 5 am and do it all again was no longer in my head and the swim taxi was parked many miles away. For a few moments that week I could do and be something else. Like the kid who gets to play in the dress up box at nursery school; in my crazy make believe world I could be Paula Radcliffe for a short while. Q-less, or should I say, Kara, next to me despite being younger, gorgeous and a phenomenal athlete, was finally running my pace and all was right in my world. As we headed down the Drive and past the Falls Bridge, I glanced up at a rather elegant graveyard. At that precise moment it triggered a poignant memento mori. All those niggling naye sayers who you bump into at parties and take great pleasure in telling you running will either give you a heart attack, or blow out your knees, would eventually end up along side Q-less and I in that very ground. Did one want to die knowing you had experienced life and all that running had to give, or would you trade that for a few stodgy hours in front of the TV, remote control in hand, warning others of the dangers of all fun activities. I knew then which choice I would make.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
'FROSTY' and the epic battle of youth versus experience....
As Bett Middler once said 'after thirty a body has a mind of its own', and having seen photos of her in recent years, she should know. Personally, I didn't think thirty was so bad, there were the constant gaining and losing of weight with having kids and a few more laughter lines - no biggy? Then forty crept up and it really wasn't as bad as everyone said; if anything I lost a little of the youthful chubbiness to my face and enjoyed a hint of definition, a suspicion of a cheek bone. Then one day around my 43rd birthday I woke up needing reading glasses, with a face that looked suspiciously like Robert Plant's (and not his early years, I might add), and a bum that was starting to resemble my morning bowl of oatmeal...what happened?
Being able to run faster or longer has been the only positive in this slow decay of flesh. The glorious thing about having been an absolute slob as a kid is that I have no PR's to look back on with nostalgia. The most exercise I did until I was in my thirties was to walk to and from the pub. As each birthday approaches now I can at least celebrate the fact that moving up to the 45 age group means I might do better in races. Happily my age advances, so do my times. This is the only thing that seems to improve in terms of my physical being. Like the painter who never wants to finish the last painting, I feel the need to always have a race to look forward to. Perhaps running is my way of avoiding the inevitable slow down and decay of old age - heck, running darn well makes you feel immortal, perhaps you can even cheat death if you run fast enough?
This past weekend saw the great Frostbite 5 Mile race in Ambler - a wonderful tradition where young and old get to duke it out on a hilly, winding course. Kids in their early teens, and eighty year olds take to the same course to run their hearts out. For years I ran with one kid or another, happy to avoid the stress of racing and hiding behind the need to get them to the finish line in a good mood, and to make, or beat their goal time. This year there was no hiding....L'il bitch was running his third Frosty, but as he had out run me in several 5k's last year, I didn't feel the need to 'coach him'. The fact that he had swum instead of run all winter didn't soften me any, I wasn't going to make it my mission to get him through the race. At the ripe old age of thirteen he had to be responsible for his own destiny and lack of training and in the words of like minded mothers out there it was going to be a case of 'suck it up kiddo'.
I started the race alongside L'il bitch and his best friend's kid brother, who had at the grand old age of 11 was clearly ready to try his hand at his first Frosty. The pace was fast and furious by my standards for the first mile, we went out at around a 6.30 mile, which sounds more impressive than it was, but it was mostly downhill. Within a half mile the 11 year old's consistent winter training had paid off, and he was way ahead of me, and even my son was ten feet infront. But I knew this too would pass. By the second mile I had a momentary maternal pang as I passed my son, and then reminded myself that 'bugger it, he really has to do this one on his own' and with a few year's of therapy he will understand my need to pass him at this point. By the middle of the race, pounding up Bright's Lane, I found myself running alongside a high school girl from the track and cross country team who I had run similar times to at other races. We ran together for a little while, until I pointed out a girl up ahead in hot purple shorts and said 'go take the fast chickie ahead' to urge the girl on to maintain her pace. Clearly this was less than motivating! I sensed her resolve drifting away as she started to hang back, so I pressed on, running my consistent pace, and entered the trail section of the run - my favourite part.
Half way into the trail the girl in the hot shorts was dead in the water as I surged past her. I congratulated myself and pondered the fact that age brings wisdom and the knowledge, that whilst anyone can go out fast, holding pace mid race is something that only comes with age or experience. The rest of the final mile was spent simply hanging on and was about that mental strength that allows you to externalize and break out of your own private world of suffering. Instead of battling your own demons age tells you to remember that the people around you are easily in worse torture than you, and you will prevail.
Surprisingly, as I made my way up the final hill to the high school I found the 16 year old high school girl magically along side me again - she had battled through her mid race lull and was back for more. Now, I know that I have about as much kick as a grain fed three legged donkey at the best of times, and wouldn't normally attempt to sprint, until the finish line was fully in view. For some reason I decided it was time to take one for 'team old folk' and stupidly found myself trying to outsprint the girl with 600 meters to go; a pitiful and painful sight for the many spectators. Soaring past the High School and then turning into the parking lot with full velocity, the girl did what she came to the race to do - to show that in the end youth and strong legs are a potent mix, as she sailed past me through the chute with grace and authority. Only the harsh clarity of race photography shows how bad it looks when middle aged women try really hard to do something that doesn't come naturally.
The pinnacle of my day was after crossing the finish line I gave the high schooler a congratulatory pat on the back and said 'good......but instead of job...all that came out was a dry heave, as I spent the next ten minutes trying not to throw up all over the poor girl's sneakers. "Thanks. I've been working on my finish," she said - No Kidding!
Being able to run faster or longer has been the only positive in this slow decay of flesh. The glorious thing about having been an absolute slob as a kid is that I have no PR's to look back on with nostalgia. The most exercise I did until I was in my thirties was to walk to and from the pub. As each birthday approaches now I can at least celebrate the fact that moving up to the 45 age group means I might do better in races. Happily my age advances, so do my times. This is the only thing that seems to improve in terms of my physical being. Like the painter who never wants to finish the last painting, I feel the need to always have a race to look forward to. Perhaps running is my way of avoiding the inevitable slow down and decay of old age - heck, running darn well makes you feel immortal, perhaps you can even cheat death if you run fast enough?
This past weekend saw the great Frostbite 5 Mile race in Ambler - a wonderful tradition where young and old get to duke it out on a hilly, winding course. Kids in their early teens, and eighty year olds take to the same course to run their hearts out. For years I ran with one kid or another, happy to avoid the stress of racing and hiding behind the need to get them to the finish line in a good mood, and to make, or beat their goal time. This year there was no hiding....L'il bitch was running his third Frosty, but as he had out run me in several 5k's last year, I didn't feel the need to 'coach him'. The fact that he had swum instead of run all winter didn't soften me any, I wasn't going to make it my mission to get him through the race. At the ripe old age of thirteen he had to be responsible for his own destiny and lack of training and in the words of like minded mothers out there it was going to be a case of 'suck it up kiddo'.
I started the race alongside L'il bitch and his best friend's kid brother, who had at the grand old age of 11 was clearly ready to try his hand at his first Frosty. The pace was fast and furious by my standards for the first mile, we went out at around a 6.30 mile, which sounds more impressive than it was, but it was mostly downhill. Within a half mile the 11 year old's consistent winter training had paid off, and he was way ahead of me, and even my son was ten feet infront. But I knew this too would pass. By the second mile I had a momentary maternal pang as I passed my son, and then reminded myself that 'bugger it, he really has to do this one on his own' and with a few year's of therapy he will understand my need to pass him at this point. By the middle of the race, pounding up Bright's Lane, I found myself running alongside a high school girl from the track and cross country team who I had run similar times to at other races. We ran together for a little while, until I pointed out a girl up ahead in hot purple shorts and said 'go take the fast chickie ahead' to urge the girl on to maintain her pace. Clearly this was less than motivating! I sensed her resolve drifting away as she started to hang back, so I pressed on, running my consistent pace, and entered the trail section of the run - my favourite part.
Half way into the trail the girl in the hot shorts was dead in the water as I surged past her. I congratulated myself and pondered the fact that age brings wisdom and the knowledge, that whilst anyone can go out fast, holding pace mid race is something that only comes with age or experience. The rest of the final mile was spent simply hanging on and was about that mental strength that allows you to externalize and break out of your own private world of suffering. Instead of battling your own demons age tells you to remember that the people around you are easily in worse torture than you, and you will prevail.
Surprisingly, as I made my way up the final hill to the high school I found the 16 year old high school girl magically along side me again - she had battled through her mid race lull and was back for more. Now, I know that I have about as much kick as a grain fed three legged donkey at the best of times, and wouldn't normally attempt to sprint, until the finish line was fully in view. For some reason I decided it was time to take one for 'team old folk' and stupidly found myself trying to outsprint the girl with 600 meters to go; a pitiful and painful sight for the many spectators. Soaring past the High School and then turning into the parking lot with full velocity, the girl did what she came to the race to do - to show that in the end youth and strong legs are a potent mix, as she sailed past me through the chute with grace and authority. Only the harsh clarity of race photography shows how bad it looks when middle aged women try really hard to do something that doesn't come naturally.
The pinnacle of my day was after crossing the finish line I gave the high schooler a congratulatory pat on the back and said 'good......but instead of job...all that came out was a dry heave, as I spent the next ten minutes trying not to throw up all over the poor girl's sneakers. "Thanks. I've been working on my finish," she said - No Kidding!
Sunday, February 12, 2012
RAMBO
Week seven of our 16 week journey into Boston training started more smoothly than usual. Instead of blugeoning Q-Less into submission with my speed work out, I explained there would instead be a more equitable pushup penalty system. Should the pace maker leading the interval bring the other runner in at either under or over the goal time, there would be a push up for each second we were astray. If nothing else it would teach Q-Less to read her garmin at the half way or quarter points and calculate the split, rather than running as if her life or the race depended on it for the first two and flaking out for the last two. Q-Less unbelievably did 'drop and give me ten' in the middle of Penlyn Pike, with out much of a murmur, with laughing truck drivers whooshing close by her ear. I tried slowing down to a snail pace right at the end of my interval, miscalculating at the end, so also had to take a push up penalty as I brought us in several seconds ahead of pace. The good news is there was no blood or profanity on the horsetrail this week, but plenty of strength training instead which can only be a good thing on the road to Boston.
The incredibly mild winter abruptly ended, bringing with it light snow fall for long run day. Setting off on Forbidden Drive was a joyous thing - the light was casting the tunnel of trees with a Monet peachy glow, and great clumps of snow were drifting off the branches and hitting Q-Less squarely on her forehead, so the gorgeous sights were punctuated by her occasional squeals. We had an 'easy' 18 ahead of us and all was right in the world. One of the most unique aspect of a snowy run is the change in the world. The landscape is cleaner and brighter, suddenly light up and everything takes on a newly softened, muffled response. The only sounds are a mild crunching from the snow, or the scuffle of some random squirrel darting through the undergrowth. Q-Less and I were enjoying the slow pace that snow provides, the lack of propulsion from the slippery surface means you have to glide along a bit slower, and make smoothness your goal rather than speed. The constant change in surface makes it harder to build rhythm but it was nice not to bother looking at the gps and just enjoy it for the sake of running.
Twenty minutes into the trail Q-less and I noticed how quiet it was, there wasn't a soul in sight. I was relishing the isolation and sense of 'owning' the fabulous newly minted snowy landscape. Q-less had other things on her mind. Just as I had moved to America ten years ago, there had been a murder at Valley Green, and the rapist/murderer had never been caught. Only a year ago they believed he had attacked a female runner again, but she had luckily escaped him. Q-less shattered the quiet beauty of the scene by firmly announcing as lone female runners we should surely have 'a plan' should anyone threaten us from the undergrowth. She followed up with the suggestion that one of us might fake a seizure, whilst the other one attacked him, and detailed precisely how we should attack our assailants' nether regions, eyes and vulnerable areas. I quickly volunteered myself to take on the seizure role, eye rolling, frothing at the mouth and twitching all over seemed to be something I could probably pull off, having had regular practice at most of these behaviours in dealing with my kids. I suggested Q-Less use her kick boxing skills to full effect and take on the other role. We discussed the likelihood of this working for some time, and then moved on to a secondary plan. This one would instead involve us both roaring loudly like brown bears and advancing at speed with arms outstretched to make ourselves look larger and rushing the guy to the wooden fencing overhanging the creek until he turned and fled or got dunked in the Wissahickon Creek. Feeling happy we now had a plan, we decided on code name RAMBO - if anyone suspicious came to close to us, either one would simply sound that code name and the brown bear plan would come into being.
Of course, despite scrutinizing every poor walker or runner on the trail, there was no one remotely suspicious that day, and code name RAMBO never got put to the test. We were meeting a couple of the Real Housewives of Blue Bell for lunch, and contemplated a surprise greeting for Merciless that would enable us to trial our new Rambo strategy on her. It was just as well that she was too fast for us, pushing her BOB at top speed she had eluded us; I think baby Berkeley would have probably outroared us and pulled faces on a different scale to the pickle episode had we ever reached them and put plan RAMBO into effect. Still, there is always next week!
The incredibly mild winter abruptly ended, bringing with it light snow fall for long run day. Setting off on Forbidden Drive was a joyous thing - the light was casting the tunnel of trees with a Monet peachy glow, and great clumps of snow were drifting off the branches and hitting Q-Less squarely on her forehead, so the gorgeous sights were punctuated by her occasional squeals. We had an 'easy' 18 ahead of us and all was right in the world. One of the most unique aspect of a snowy run is the change in the world. The landscape is cleaner and brighter, suddenly light up and everything takes on a newly softened, muffled response. The only sounds are a mild crunching from the snow, or the scuffle of some random squirrel darting through the undergrowth. Q-Less and I were enjoying the slow pace that snow provides, the lack of propulsion from the slippery surface means you have to glide along a bit slower, and make smoothness your goal rather than speed. The constant change in surface makes it harder to build rhythm but it was nice not to bother looking at the gps and just enjoy it for the sake of running.
Twenty minutes into the trail Q-less and I noticed how quiet it was, there wasn't a soul in sight. I was relishing the isolation and sense of 'owning' the fabulous newly minted snowy landscape. Q-less had other things on her mind. Just as I had moved to America ten years ago, there had been a murder at Valley Green, and the rapist/murderer had never been caught. Only a year ago they believed he had attacked a female runner again, but she had luckily escaped him. Q-less shattered the quiet beauty of the scene by firmly announcing as lone female runners we should surely have 'a plan' should anyone threaten us from the undergrowth. She followed up with the suggestion that one of us might fake a seizure, whilst the other one attacked him, and detailed precisely how we should attack our assailants' nether regions, eyes and vulnerable areas. I quickly volunteered myself to take on the seizure role, eye rolling, frothing at the mouth and twitching all over seemed to be something I could probably pull off, having had regular practice at most of these behaviours in dealing with my kids. I suggested Q-Less use her kick boxing skills to full effect and take on the other role. We discussed the likelihood of this working for some time, and then moved on to a secondary plan. This one would instead involve us both roaring loudly like brown bears and advancing at speed with arms outstretched to make ourselves look larger and rushing the guy to the wooden fencing overhanging the creek until he turned and fled or got dunked in the Wissahickon Creek. Feeling happy we now had a plan, we decided on code name RAMBO - if anyone suspicious came to close to us, either one would simply sound that code name and the brown bear plan would come into being.
Of course, despite scrutinizing every poor walker or runner on the trail, there was no one remotely suspicious that day, and code name RAMBO never got put to the test. We were meeting a couple of the Real Housewives of Blue Bell for lunch, and contemplated a surprise greeting for Merciless that would enable us to trial our new Rambo strategy on her. It was just as well that she was too fast for us, pushing her BOB at top speed she had eluded us; I think baby Berkeley would have probably outroared us and pulled faces on a different scale to the pickle episode had we ever reached them and put plan RAMBO into effect. Still, there is always next week!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sisterhood of Running
Running is a distillation and concentrated expression of many of life's moments - bound up into one intense experience. This week's Boston training was no exception. At week six of our 16 week plan, we are now starting to increase some distance on the long runs, and also to increase the distances in our speed work; reducing our recovery time, so we get long gasps of speed work to replicate the sense of exhaustion you feel later on in a marathon. Instead of the fast and furious 800 metre repeats of last week, we were now shooting for 2000's, which is about a mile and a quarter, and consequently long enough to start to feel more like endurance speed work. Q-Less was her usual 'less than optimistic self' when I mentioned going to the track for our Tuesday training - bad memories of high school, coupled with a lack of willingness to have every stride measured and on pace, had her voting for the trails around the school instead. Initially we were scheduled to run 3 X 2000's at 10k pace, but I pointed out that as our tempo runs were much harder than that, 4 was a more realistic goal. Also, our pace should probably be closer to 5k/10k, as it was supposed to be speed work. More groaning ensued as Q-Less digested my latest work out......and she muttered something about my generally deranged state of mind before her assent was grudgingly given. I did remind her that stellar athlete that she was she was more than capable of the times we were aiming for, I think the phrase was 'if I can do them at that pace, you DEFINITELY can'.
The sun was shining, the weather has been unseasonably warm and glorious and we had both accidentally worn similar shirts - baby blue, black tights - we were starting to look like a team... and passersby were laughing at our twinny look. The first repeat was really fun. Q-Less is a consummate one stepper; in speed work she will never let anyone get more than a pace ahead of her, her competitive nature just works that way. I am also competitive, but recognize her long stride and generally stubborn nature, so naturally hang back behind and accept my role in the pack hierarchy of running. However, on Tuesday I had new shoes, my legs actually felt good, and I was feeling a little bit cheeky. The nagging IT band pain I had suffered from seemed to have temporarily vanished, and it felt good to fly over the rocks and divots of the horsetrail. Initially we had talked sagely about the wisdom of running single file, as others do use that trail, and it is quite a rough surface. But that was immediatly out the window, and every time I drew level with Q-Less, she promptly sped up...every time I tested her...she responded harder and faster. At the end of a very exhilirating first repeat I glanced at the split and we both agreed it was way too fast - 8.20, instead of the 9.11 goal pace. Cheri was groaning and moaning that it had been way too difficult and there was no way she could make another three at that pace, plus she wanted to vomit badly, she wanted to go back down to 3 not 4 repeats; I did point out that she didn't have to respond, she could have let me go ahead but she looked at me like I was a four headed alien for even suggesting it. As a solution I proposed for the next repeat, which would now be an uphill reverse of the first one, that Q-Less should instead lead, with me hanging back in a 6 feet exclusion zone so she wouldn't feel threatened or compelled to pick up the pace, and she would try and get us back to the 5k/10k range we needed to be in. Q-Less shot off at almost the same pace as the first one. I followed dutifully, finding it slightly more challenging as we were now travelling up at an incline, but still enjoying the satisfying burn in the lungs that a bit of speedwork does for you after days of slow but steady paces. At the end of interval two Q-Less was spitting with frustration and grumbling with rather more gutteral noises, about how punishingly fast and hard this work out was. I took great pleasure in pointing out that as she had led the pace she only had herself to blame and self righteously observed that perhaps that was why she kept suffering at mile 16/18 in her marathons.....lack of self control, patience blah blah preach preach preach. Fortunately the third interval went much more smoothly - we agreed I would lead with the same exclusion zone rules....we got right back to pace. Q-Less was also happy, she realized on the second interval that she had put way too much pressure on herself to be fast due to her general discomfort the first time round. When the going got tough her response was simply to try harder, run harder and do more, not take 5% off. By my leading she didn't need to battle her own fatigue and conquer it, she could simply run the prescribed pace. At interval four I offered up the choice to Q-Less of following or leading and she readily accepted the former, preferring to run behind me at the correct pace and not put too much pressure on herself to go fast...I should have known this was way too rational and reasonable a response....
Cruising through the fourth interval of a ten mile run is always a mixed experience. The legs are becoming slightly numb and disconnect sets in. It feels a bit like mile 22 of the race - the speed is not outrageously fast, but you are trying to achieve something that the body is not sure it wants to give...and the mind is definitely the lead muscle in this situation. Thinking back on the intense exchanges we had had during this workout distracted me from the waves of tiredness wafting over me, and I was beginning to run on auto pilot. The only sounds were Q-Less gasping and mildly groaning in the background. The chain fence of the High School cross country team's finish chute lay tantalizingly ahead, the end of our final interval. Through this miasma, my brain operating on about a quarter function, fed a signal to me that the sounds I was registering were getting closer. Q-Less was gasping her way to the finish line in one final spasm of competitiveness. Allowing me to lead had only been a temporary tactic and she would not be satisfied until she had 'beaten' me to the finish line of our final interval. I don't even think that this was a premeditated tactic, more like an involuntary Q-Less response, but if there was any life left in her amazonian legs they were not finishing second. Having suffered myself from the pace mistakes of the first two, and then nursed Q-Less through the second two intervals, this seemed a little rich. I had deliberately gone out a little slower to allow us both some recovery, building, then maintaining a good even pace to get us to the end of that final interval in better shape. The raw injustice of this situation rose up and grabbed me by the throat. With the immaturity that comes from being a second born, 18 months behind a very accomplished and competitive older sister, I reached out my arm just as she passed me and gave her a big slice of what they call in the North of England 'smack bum pie'. Various expletives were spewed out on that horse trail as I called her every name under the sun, and then some more - despite becoming more Englis as I ranted I am not sure much of this was lost in translation. Q-less gave me a rueful look then laughed and said 'You didn't think I was going to let you beat me did you?'
Rage and frustration were swiftly replaced by mild embarrasment....physical violence and verbal abuse of one's running partner isn't something I am proud of. Nonetheless and Merciless laughed their heads off when they heard about it, and it did seem somewhat ridiculous when we talked about it later at kids' werestling match. Rationalizing it made me realize that running friendships are particularly intense, and the closeness of that relationship is a lot like a sisterhood. The last girl I slapped was almost certainly my sister Jane - she would get so bored in the long summer holidays she would pick a fight for the fun of it...some of them were epic battles, I remember one resulting in me chasing her all the way down the bottom of our long cottage garden, holding her down on her back whilst I ground red hot meringues, fresh from the oven, around the sensitive skin of her face.
Running friends share every mundane detail of their family lives as they happen...what else can you talk about during those 18 mile runs....you know each other's bathroom habits.....you each have to show weakness and vulnerability at times when you struggle during a run. You get to understand someone's psyche by seeing them in some extreme situations. Running is also a very levelling experience, you go through it together and only your companions on that particular run will every truly understand what the emotional journey was like, the happy crazy runs, the miserable hard ones when the weather has turned treacherous. The trial is also a truly private experience, you don't need to even look each other as you bob alongside together, deepest secrets are confided, and never revealed. I might use this blog as form of therapy and it can illuminate certain aspects of runnning, but there are shades of the trail that will always remain as dark and as enclosed as the confessional.
The sun was shining, the weather has been unseasonably warm and glorious and we had both accidentally worn similar shirts - baby blue, black tights - we were starting to look like a team... and passersby were laughing at our twinny look. The first repeat was really fun. Q-Less is a consummate one stepper; in speed work she will never let anyone get more than a pace ahead of her, her competitive nature just works that way. I am also competitive, but recognize her long stride and generally stubborn nature, so naturally hang back behind and accept my role in the pack hierarchy of running. However, on Tuesday I had new shoes, my legs actually felt good, and I was feeling a little bit cheeky. The nagging IT band pain I had suffered from seemed to have temporarily vanished, and it felt good to fly over the rocks and divots of the horsetrail. Initially we had talked sagely about the wisdom of running single file, as others do use that trail, and it is quite a rough surface. But that was immediatly out the window, and every time I drew level with Q-Less, she promptly sped up...every time I tested her...she responded harder and faster. At the end of a very exhilirating first repeat I glanced at the split and we both agreed it was way too fast - 8.20, instead of the 9.11 goal pace. Cheri was groaning and moaning that it had been way too difficult and there was no way she could make another three at that pace, plus she wanted to vomit badly, she wanted to go back down to 3 not 4 repeats; I did point out that she didn't have to respond, she could have let me go ahead but she looked at me like I was a four headed alien for even suggesting it. As a solution I proposed for the next repeat, which would now be an uphill reverse of the first one, that Q-Less should instead lead, with me hanging back in a 6 feet exclusion zone so she wouldn't feel threatened or compelled to pick up the pace, and she would try and get us back to the 5k/10k range we needed to be in. Q-Less shot off at almost the same pace as the first one. I followed dutifully, finding it slightly more challenging as we were now travelling up at an incline, but still enjoying the satisfying burn in the lungs that a bit of speedwork does for you after days of slow but steady paces. At the end of interval two Q-Less was spitting with frustration and grumbling with rather more gutteral noises, about how punishingly fast and hard this work out was. I took great pleasure in pointing out that as she had led the pace she only had herself to blame and self righteously observed that perhaps that was why she kept suffering at mile 16/18 in her marathons.....lack of self control, patience blah blah preach preach preach. Fortunately the third interval went much more smoothly - we agreed I would lead with the same exclusion zone rules....we got right back to pace. Q-Less was also happy, she realized on the second interval that she had put way too much pressure on herself to be fast due to her general discomfort the first time round. When the going got tough her response was simply to try harder, run harder and do more, not take 5% off. By my leading she didn't need to battle her own fatigue and conquer it, she could simply run the prescribed pace. At interval four I offered up the choice to Q-Less of following or leading and she readily accepted the former, preferring to run behind me at the correct pace and not put too much pressure on herself to go fast...I should have known this was way too rational and reasonable a response....
Cruising through the fourth interval of a ten mile run is always a mixed experience. The legs are becoming slightly numb and disconnect sets in. It feels a bit like mile 22 of the race - the speed is not outrageously fast, but you are trying to achieve something that the body is not sure it wants to give...and the mind is definitely the lead muscle in this situation. Thinking back on the intense exchanges we had had during this workout distracted me from the waves of tiredness wafting over me, and I was beginning to run on auto pilot. The only sounds were Q-Less gasping and mildly groaning in the background. The chain fence of the High School cross country team's finish chute lay tantalizingly ahead, the end of our final interval. Through this miasma, my brain operating on about a quarter function, fed a signal to me that the sounds I was registering were getting closer. Q-Less was gasping her way to the finish line in one final spasm of competitiveness. Allowing me to lead had only been a temporary tactic and she would not be satisfied until she had 'beaten' me to the finish line of our final interval. I don't even think that this was a premeditated tactic, more like an involuntary Q-Less response, but if there was any life left in her amazonian legs they were not finishing second. Having suffered myself from the pace mistakes of the first two, and then nursed Q-Less through the second two intervals, this seemed a little rich. I had deliberately gone out a little slower to allow us both some recovery, building, then maintaining a good even pace to get us to the end of that final interval in better shape. The raw injustice of this situation rose up and grabbed me by the throat. With the immaturity that comes from being a second born, 18 months behind a very accomplished and competitive older sister, I reached out my arm just as she passed me and gave her a big slice of what they call in the North of England 'smack bum pie'. Various expletives were spewed out on that horse trail as I called her every name under the sun, and then some more - despite becoming more Englis as I ranted I am not sure much of this was lost in translation. Q-less gave me a rueful look then laughed and said 'You didn't think I was going to let you beat me did you?'
Rage and frustration were swiftly replaced by mild embarrasment....physical violence and verbal abuse of one's running partner isn't something I am proud of. Nonetheless and Merciless laughed their heads off when they heard about it, and it did seem somewhat ridiculous when we talked about it later at kids' werestling match. Rationalizing it made me realize that running friendships are particularly intense, and the closeness of that relationship is a lot like a sisterhood. The last girl I slapped was almost certainly my sister Jane - she would get so bored in the long summer holidays she would pick a fight for the fun of it...some of them were epic battles, I remember one resulting in me chasing her all the way down the bottom of our long cottage garden, holding her down on her back whilst I ground red hot meringues, fresh from the oven, around the sensitive skin of her face.
Running friends share every mundane detail of their family lives as they happen...what else can you talk about during those 18 mile runs....you know each other's bathroom habits.....you each have to show weakness and vulnerability at times when you struggle during a run. You get to understand someone's psyche by seeing them in some extreme situations. Running is also a very levelling experience, you go through it together and only your companions on that particular run will every truly understand what the emotional journey was like, the happy crazy runs, the miserable hard ones when the weather has turned treacherous. The trial is also a truly private experience, you don't need to even look each other as you bob alongside together, deepest secrets are confided, and never revealed. I might use this blog as form of therapy and it can illuminate certain aspects of runnning, but there are shades of the trail that will always remain as dark and as enclosed as the confessional.
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